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MINKA MAYET
Archer was not my builder.
Thank you, baby Jesus.
Steve returned my belongings.
Tim dozed long after I emptied the coffee pot and left his bar.
And last night, once I was settled in, I slept like a baby in my new-to-me bed, and woke this morning with a giddy bounce to my step as I prepare for my first day at my new lab.
I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet but for a few small things to keep me alive, which means as I make my way through my living room and pull on the best coat I have to beat the cold outside, I snatch up my keys and fully intend to knock on Tim’s door again and demand to use his coffee pot.
My bathroom has been patched up, and my builder, named Joe, has promised to come back to finish the job properly by the end of the week. That’s completely fine by me, because like every other person I’ve met in my new city so far, Joe also drank from the fountain of good looks and washboard abs—though the abs are an assumption on my part; he was wearing a hoodie the whole time he was here.
Stepping out of my apartment and trembling from the cold, I lock up again and huddle deeper into my coat.
It’s my birthday in just a few days, and my first paycheck comes in the day before that. So as a gift to myself, I intend to explore my new shopping district and find something that’ll get me through the rest of winter with a little less dread for the outside. A pair of gloves, maybe. A matching hat, if at some point between now and then I have a stroke and think maybe I’d like to try a life of coordinated outfits.
I skip down my building staircase and blow warm air into my hands. The thought of coffee—of Tim’s shitty coffee—being in my belly in just a few minutes brings a smile to my lips that I carry all the way to the bottom of four flights of stairs. But before I can step out, Steve beams from where he lingers by the front door.
“Good morning, Miss Mayet.” He takes my hands the moment I’m close enough and balls them in his to keep them warm. “Are you excited about your big day?”
“You involve yourself way too much in your tenants’ lives.” But I snuggle in for a moment and inhale the scent of old tobacco as I accept a grandpa type of hug. “I’m heading into work just as soon as I get my morning coffee.”
Pulling back, I study Steve’s drooping eyes and peek beneath the long brows that shadow them. “What do you do while everyone else is out?”
“Mosey around, mostly.” He releases my hands and drops his into the pockets of his cardigan. “Mrs. Mayweather in 3B’s dishwasher is acting up, so I’ll head on up and take a look in a bit.”
“Wait.” I stop fidgeting under my coat and scowl. “3B has a dishwasher?”
“Mrs. Mayweather has been here almost as long as I have.” Steve flashes a devious grin that makes me wonder what else he does when its just him and that woman in the building. “She’s earned certain perks other apartments have not.”
“That cheeky, cheeky Mrs. Mayweather.” Making my way to the glass doors and peeking out to the snow-covered gutters, I look back to my landlord and smile. “I see how things work around here. I think I’ll continue using paper plates and avoid all dishwasher drama for now.”
“You’re flirting with me, Miss Mayet.”
I bark out a laugh and open the glass door. Instantly, frigid wind whips in and sends goosebumps racing beneath my pants. “Not for a dishwasher. My flirt is string-free.”
“Always?” he counters. “Or because today’s a good day?”
“Today’s agreatday, so let’s start with that and go from there.”
Stepping outside into the cold, I wave for Steve and close the door again to stop him from getting a chill, then I drop my hands into my pockets and quick-step it to Tim’s front door, only feet from mine.
Coming here again might be akin to committing suicide, but a girl needs coffee, and the news is reporting a ruckus down at the local corner store a few blocks from here. Barricades are up, according to Miranda London—the blonde, big-racked, bombshell of a news reporter covering the scene of what has been dubbed a mystery homicide.
Words that long ago stopped registering fear, or even surprise, in my mind.
My job revolves around homicide and the horrible things one human does to another, so to hear someone has died is hardly enough to put a hitch in my step these days. I’m far more concerned about satisfying my need for coffee.
“Tim?” I knock on the heavy front door and call out loud enough he’ll hear me from the apartment above. “Are you there, Tim? I need coffee!”
Silence beats back at me. The low hum of Monday morning traffic reaches my ears from a few streets over, and the gentle blow of wind pushes my hair back. But Tim remains silent.
And that just won’t do.
I knock again. “Tim! Wake up. I need coffee, and there was a murder not so far from here, so I kinda need your protection.”
